The Murder of Steve Sloan
by Weimlady
Summary: Steve is missing and Mark is frantic with worry. Jesse and Amanda try to help but with each passing hour, the chances appear worse for finding Steve alive.


Steve Sloan's silver Chevy glided to a stop in the alley. His long legs unfolded out the door and he stood, shielded by the car door, and looked toward both ends of the shabby cul-de-sac. Satisfied that he was alone, he closed the door and strode to the overflowing dumpster, where he squatted and, wrinkling his nose, began sifting through the fragrant rubble.

He pulled a stained and wrinkled scrap of paper from the pile, smoothed it against his thigh, and peered intently at the faint handwriting. A soft footstep made him start to turn his head, but before he could move a heavy weight landed on his back and threw him sideways into the pile of garbage. A sharp pain in his left side told him that he was in a fight for his life.

Reaching back over his shoulder, he grabbed his assailant's head and, rolling forward in the reeking trash, used his weight and momentum to flip the attacker off his back. Steve heard a satisfying "oof" of air leaving the man's lungs as he hit the pavement. Then he felt a sharp blow on the back of his head, lights danced momentarily before his eyes, and he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

"Nice save, Jacko," gasped the first attacker, catching his breath and picking himself up off the asphalt. "Thanks. Let's see what he's got on him."

The two punks rolled Steve onto his back. His jacket tails fell back, revealing the badge and holstered pistol attached to his belt.

"Oh, shit, man, it's a cop," the second one said. He slapped his partner's head, snapping it sideways. "What the fuck were you thinking, jumping a cop?"

"How was I supposed to know, Jacko?" Mike whined, holding a hand over his ringing ear. "He was digging through the garbage, for Chrissake."

"Well, now he is garbage." Jacko pulled the switchblade out of Steve's side and handed it to Mike. "Clean that up and put it away." As Mike complied, Jacko quickly emptied Steve's pockets, removed his watch and pulled the shield off his belt. He tugged at the holstered gun, then unbuckled Steve's belt and pulled it free. "Nice belt," he commented, rubbing it on Steve's fawn jacket to clean the blood off, then rolling it up and adding it to his loot. He picked up the now-freed gun and holster, gave Steve's keys a jaunty toss, and grinned at his partner.

"Want to go for a little ride, Mikey?" Mikey nodded happily, glad to be in his partner's good graces again, and the two punks climbed into the silver Chevy, gunned it, and pulled out of the alley.

xOxOx

"Dr. Sloan, there's a call for you," said Nurse Hooper, as the silver-haired physician handed her a patient history file.

"Thanks, Wanda," he said with a warm smile, He picked up the charge desk phone and pushed the flashing button.. "Dr. Sloan," he said.

"Dr. Sloan? This is Lt. Shoemacher at the precinct."

"Hi, Ralph! What's up?"

"Have you heard from Steve recently?"

Mark's eyebrows furrowed. "We had coffee this morning. You mean more recently than that?"

"Within the past few hours."

"No, I haven't." Concern crept into his voice. "Something wrong?"

"Probably not." Ralph tried to sound nonchalant. "He was supposed to be here for a briefing at one and he hasn't shown. That's all. We're not ready to put an APB out on him, or anything," he chuckled. "Just would like to know where he is."

"That's not like him," Mark said, frowning.

"We know it's not," Ralph said, all pretense of joking falling away. "Let us know if you hear from him, okay, doc?"

"Yeah," Mark said, and paused. "You, too, Ralph." he added.

"Of course. We'll tell him to call you as soon as he checks in."

"Thanks," Mark said, and slowly replaced the receiver on its cradle.

xOxOx

A cheerfully off-key whistle echoed through the alley as a tall skeleton of a man pushed a grocery cart slowly along, peering from side to side, on the alert for possible treasures. Spotting the overflowing dumpster, he glanced back at the entrance to the alley, and then zig-zagged carefully in the general direction of the trash heap, whistling all the way.

"Hey mister," he said, as he noticed Steve Sloan's motionless figure half-buried in garbage. He nudged Steve's arm with his toe. "Hey mister," he repeated. "You shouldn't sleep in the garbage. You'll catch something." He squatted down next to Steve and looked him up and down. "You sick, mister?" he asked. "Need a drink? I just got a new bottle from Keke at the bar." He pulled a pint of Irish Rose out of his shopping cart and twisted off the lid. "She's good to me sometimes," he explained as he held the bottle out to Steve. "Sometimes she isn't," he added with a frown.

He moved to place the bottle to Steve's still lips, spilling liquor down the sides of his cheeks and chin. "Oh, hey, don't waste it, Mister," he admonished, wiping the spilled booze from Steve's face and licking his fingers. He propped Steve's head up and tried again, this time spilling whiskey down the front of his shirt. "Guess you're not thirsty," he said, as he gently lowered Steve's head to the asphalt. He lifted the bottle to his own lips and made up for Steve's lack of thirst with a hearty swig. Then he rocked back on his heels, and contemplated Steve's still form with a quizzical air.

"Mister, that's a nice shirt. I'm sorry I spilled on it." Steve's silence accepted his apology. "Nice pants, too. I could sure use some new clothes. Shoes, too." More silence followed this statement. "Want to swap?" Steve didn't say no. "Thanks, mister."

He propped Steve up in a sitting position and removed his blood-smeared jacket and dark teal shirt. He carefully folded them, smoothed them, and tucked them away in his shopping cart home. Then he removed Steve's shoes and peeled off his socks, turning each sock back rightside out, rolling it into a neat ball and tucking it into a shoe. Finally, he unsnapped and unzipped Steve's jeans, and pulled them off.

As he folded the jeans and placed them with the other clothes in the cart, he looked at Steve and frowned. "Mister, you shouldn't lie around in the garbage in your underwear." He turned to rummage in his cart, and pulled out two very tired articles of clothing. "Here, I said I'd swap. You can have my second best suit." Once again, he knelt next to Steve's inert form, and reversed the process of stripping him, pushing his arms through the sleeves of a raggedy sweat shirt, and pulling too-tight, too-short, worn-to-the-nap Wal-Mart slacks onto him. He stood up and surveyed his results, smiling. "That's better. Thanks a bunch, mister. Hope you feel better soon."

A cheerfully off-key whistle echoed through the alley again, as the man ambled back out onto the sunlit street, pushing his grocery cart world. 

xOxOx

Dr. Jesse Travis poured thick, black coffee into his mug from the staff lounge's well-used pot. As he sat down at a table, both hands circling the mug, Dr. Amanda Bentley appeared in the doorway, also in search of some plasma with cream and sugar.

"Hey, I thought you were off," Amanda greeted Jesse.

"I was," he grumped, sipping the black brew. "Until Martinson called in sick. Now I'm on another eight hours."

"Shades of your intern days," Amanda commented, as she doctored her coffee. She sat down in the chair next to Jesse and swirled her stir stick vigorously around the cup.

"What's up with Mark?" Jesse asked.

"He's worried about Steve. Why?" Amanda asked back.

"Why what? And why's he worried about Steve? Moreso than usual, I mean." Jesse rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. "I'm a little blurry here, Amanda, work with me."

"I meant why did you ask what was up with him, and he's worried about Steve because he hasn't heard from him since this morning."

"I asked him what he thought I should do about Bergen, and he said he'd need to check the X-rays and get back with me."

"Bergen? Your poison ivy case?"

"Yeah."

Amanda shook her head. "He hasn't been able to concentrate all afternoon."

"Hey, I know they're close, but they do occasionally go a few hours without speaking, don't they? Did they have a fight or something?" Jesse asked, almost hopefully. He still had trouble believing that any father and son could also be best friends and working partners, the way Steve and Mark were.

"No one has heard from Steve. The precinct called to see if Mark knew where he was."

Jesse frowned. "That doesn't sound good. I suppose they paged him and tried his cell phone?"

"Of course. No response to either." Amanda watched the steam rise from her coffee for a moment, then took a sip. She looked up as Mark appeared in the doorway, and felt chills of fear when she saw the look in his eyes. None of the three spoke for a long moment. 

"They found Steve's car," Mark said, his voice catching. "Abandoned." Jesse pulled out a chair for him and he sank into it as Jesse and Amanda exchanged a concerned glance. 

"Where was it?" Amanda asked gently. 

"Pasadena," Mark replied. 

"What was he doing in Pasadena?" Jess asked. 

"He wasn't planning to go to Pasadena today. He didn't have any cases out that way." Mark ran his fingers through his hair distractedly. 

"Maybe something lead him out there," Amanda suggested hopefully. "Unexpectedly." 

"Then where is he?" Mark asked no one in particular. 

"Any signs of foul play?" Jesse asked, then winced as Amanda kicked him in the shin under the table. Her scowl threatened more bodily harm if he didn't think before he spoke again. 

Mark shook his head. "No," he said. "The car was clean. They found his keys in a vacant lot across the street." He looked at his two young friends. "The gas tank was empty." 

"So, he ran out of gas..." 

"Steve never runs out of gas." Mark interjected. "Always fills it up when it hits a quarter of a tank." 

"OK, well, today he forgot." Jesse persisted, despite warning signals from across the table. "He gets out of the car to walk somewhere to get gas. Did he carry a gas can?" 

"Does he carry a gas can," Amanda hissed, stressing present tense. 

"No, he doesn't," Mark answered. 

"OK, well, he cuts across the vacant lot on his way to get a gas can so he can get some gas and he drops his keys." 

"Why wouldn't he just call AAA on his cell phone?" Amanda asked icily. 

"Maybe he's not a member." Jesse stuck out his chin stubbornly at his interrogator. 

"It wouldn't happen." Mark shook his head. "It just wouldn't happen. But if it did, he could just call a black and white to take him to a gas station, or bring him some gas." 

A disembodied voice called, "Dr. Travis to ER. Dr. Jesse Travis to ER" and Jesse drained the last of his coffee. "That's me. Gotta go. Mark," he looked at his friend and paused. He glanced helplessly at Amanda, then continued. "Keep me posted, okay?" 

"Sure Jess," Mark agreed absentmindedly, patting the hand that Jesse placed on his shoulder. With a last appealing look over Mark's head to Amanda, Jesse headed out the door and down the hallway. 

"Mark, why don't you go home? It's after five." 

"What if he calls here for me?" Mark asked. 

"He's more likely to try to get you at home at this hour," Amanda pointed out. "He may be there when you get home, for all you know." Mark just looked at her. "OK, I'll tell you what. I'll pick up CJ and we'll come over for dinner. Then we'll be there in case," she trailed off for a second, but picked up her sentence with forced cheerfulness. "In case he calls and needs some help." 

"I'd like that, honey," Mark said softly. "I'm having a hard time thinking about going home to an empty house at the moment." 

He placed a fatherly hand on her forearm and squeezed affectionately. Amanda drained her coffee cup, rinsed it in the small sink and placed it upside-down in the drainer. Then she and Mark left the lounge, heading for Malibu. 

xOxOx

The raucous back-up alarm of the garbage truck echoed through the alley, as one of the two men hanging on the back of the truck waved the driver in. As they approached the dumpster, he suddenly dropped off the truck and frantically gave the driver a full stop signal. 

"Aw, geez, I hate this city," he said to his partner as they both walked up to the pile of trash where Steve Sloan lay, unconscious. 

"Sucks," his partner agreed, looking down on Steve's still form. 

"What's the holdup back there?" the driver yelled impatiently.. 

"There's a dead guy back here." They heard the truck door open and then slam shut, and in a moment all three of them were contemplating Steve. 

"You sure he's dead?" 

"Sure looks dead." 

"Look at all the blood." 

"We oughta check." 

"What, you mean, touch him?" 

"Well, yeah, how else would you check?" the driver asked. "I mean, you got to check for a pulse, see if he's breathing. You know?" 

"I'm not touching him," 

The driver sighed a martyr's sigh, and hitched himself down on one knee near Steve's side. 

"Watch out for the blood!" 

"Yeah, you can get AIDS from touching blood." 

"How do you know this guy has AIDS?" the driver asked, doubtful, but not getting any closer to the pool of drying blood on the concrete next to Steve. 

"All these homeless guys have it, don'tcha know?" 

"Yeah, they shoot up with dirty needles." 

The driver leaned over Steve, took a whiff and reeled back, waving his hand in front of his face. "This guy drinks his poison. Alkys don't have a lot of AIDS, do they?" 

"Just get on the radio and call the cops, Hank," suggested one of the cautious ones. "Let them deal with it." 

"Yeah, this sort of shit is their job." 

Hank took a long look at Steve, taking in the ragged clothes, the unidentifiable substances smeared in his hair, the bluish pallor to his skin. He shook his head, rose to his feet, walked back to the cab of the truck, and called the cops. 

xOxOx

The ambulance passed Mark's black convertible on its way to Community General's ER. "More work for Jesse," Mark thought in passing, then pressed the accelerator and eased out onto the street, heading home. But it wasn't Jesse who greeted the med techs as they unloaded Steve from the ambulance. 

"Oh, great, this looks like a prize case," sneered Dr. Malone, as he took in the filth and stench of his new patient. "Don't you people clean them up any on the way here?" 

The paramedics exchanged glances. Dr. Frank Malone was new at CG, but he already had a reputation with the ER personnel. 

"Maybe they were too busy trying to keep him alive." Karen Micceli commented wryly. She, too, was new at CG, but with ten years of emergency room nursing at Cedars Sinai on her resume, she wasn't intimidated by Malone. 

"Why bother?" Dr. Malone muttered. "Doesn't look like he has much of a life to keep." 

Karen glared at him. "If that's how you feel, Dr. Malone, why did you go into this profession?" Her hands were busy as she spoke, cutting the ragged sweatshirt off Steve and exposing the knife slit in his lower left side. 

"Do we have time to discuss my career choices right now, Nurse?" Malone snapped. "I thought we were busy trying to save this piece of human garbage from the damage he's inflicted on himself." 

"Oh, you diagnose that he stabbed himself in the side and hit himself in the head?" 

"Might as well have." Dr. Malone was going through the motions of examining Steve with obvious distaste. "He put himself in the way of whatever happened to him. It's all about choices, Nurse. And this asshole made some seriously wrong choices along the way." He checked the paramedics' notes one last time, then threw the folder down on the cart. "Let's get him to the OR and waste some more of the hospital's money. Burn those things," he ordered the nursing assistant who was trying to fold up what was left of Steve's clothes without actually touching them. 

He stalked out of the ER, leaving all the personnel within earshot shaking their heads and exchanging dismayed glances 

"How did this guy get hired?" Karen asked the room at large. 

"Distant cousin of Norman Briggs, I think," someone volunteered. 

xOxOx

"Dr. Travis, to the OR. Dr. Travis, to the OR," droned the announcement. 

Jesse snapped to a sitting position like an automaton and swung his legs off the side of the sofa. He took a moment to rest his head in his hands, run his fingers through his blonde hair, and rub his face vigorously. Then he was out the door and on his way to the OR. 

"Travis, it's about time," Dr. Malone snapped through his mask as a gowned and gloved Jesse entered the OR. Steve lay on the table, anesthesia mask obscuring his face, fully draped except for his wounded side. 

"Sorry, Frank, I was asleep. I got here as fast as I could." Jesse was one of the few residents who was still trying to find Frank Malone's good side so he could stay on it. Even he was beginning to doubt its existence at this point, however. 

"Give me some traction here," Malone ordered. "This is worse than it looked at first, Travis. I thought it was a one-man job. Figured if it wasn't, no great loss." 

"What do you mean, no great loss?" Jesse asked, as he sized up the damage the knife had done to Steve's internal organs and assisted Malone's deft surgery. 

"I mean if he died, no big deal," Malone continued, conversationally. 

Jesse's knitted eyebrows were visible above his plastic visor, but Malone didn't glance up from his work to see them. 

"No big deal?" Jess tried to get his sleep-deprived mind around this phrase. "Why?" 

"He's homeless, a bum, a drunk. Found him lying in a pile of garbage, reeking of alcohol. We'd be doing him a favor if we let him die." 

Jesse silently digested this statement for a moment. The detective in him noticed the undraped abdominal muscles that Malone had cut through to reach and repair the internal damage, and the observation that this man was in awfully good shape for a homeless person drifted through his subconscious But the doctor in him was too outraged at the surgeon's callous attitude to allow this thought to surface. "How many homeless people do you know, Frank?" he asked. 

"One too many. This one," Malone answered, pointing with his scalpel toward Steve's insides. 

"Well, I've met a lot of them in the past two years," Jesse started. "A lot of them are my friends. And it would be a big deal to a lot of people, including me, if they died. Especially if they died because the doctor who was supposed to save their lives didn't care enough to give it his best shot. Or call in help if he needs it." 

The heat of Jesse's glare could have melted his plastic visor. Even Malone was brought up short by the force of his emotion, and continued working in silence for a few minutes. Between the two skilled doctors, Steve's injury was repaired and the incision closed. Jesse stripped off his mask and gloves and left the OR without a backward glance. Malone stared after him. 

"And since you have the ear of the Chief of Internal Medicine, you think you can tell me how to practice medicine," he sneered at the swinging OR doors. He glanced back at Steve, and said to no one in particular, "Well, I suppose since this piece of trash didn't have the grace to die on the table, I'll have to see if his head injury is going to kill him." 

xOxOx

"Are you sure you don't want us to stay?" Amanda asked. She stood in the doorway of Mark's Malibu home, her soft brown eyes full of concern as she gazed at her white-haired friend and mentor. Mark held a sleepy C.J. tightly, but shook his head at her question. 

"This little guy needs to sleep in his own bed tonight," Mark said as he patted C.J.'s back. The two-year-old pushed against Mark's shoulder for a moment, then snuggled back into its comforting warmth and closed his eyes. 

"He's a good cop, Mark. He's a tough cop. I don't know what's keeping him away, but he can handle it. He's going to turn up and be just fine." Amanda stated, too emphatically. 

Mark nodded. "I know he is, honey." He closed his eyes and hugged C.J. to him a little more tightly. Then he smiled crookedly at Amanda and said, "But thanks for reminding me." Reluctantly, he handed the little boy over to his mother. "Now go home and get some sleep." 

Amanda accepted the familiar weight of her boy with a slight bend of her knees. CJ wiggled in her arms for a moment, then, realizing where he was, contentedly closed his eyes and let his head fall heavily onto her shoulder. 

Amanda and Mark hugged, sandwiching the two-year-old between them, and Amanda stood on tiptoes to kiss Mark's cheek. "I will. I wish you would, too. And I still wish you would call Carol." 

"And tell her what?" Mark countered, holding her at arm's length. 

"Her brother is missing, Mark," she pointed out gently. "She would want to know." 

"It's been less than twenty-four hours. The police don't even consider people missing after such a short time." Amanda tilted her head and raised her eyebrows at him. "I'll call her as soon as I know anything, honey, I promise," Mark responded to the look. "But I don't see any point in putting her through this not knowing too." He shook his head. "I can't do that to her." He forced a pale shadow of his usual warm smile. "I'll wait till he gets back. Now go." He held the door open for her. "Go on. Scoot." He made a sweeping motion with his hand, as she reluctantly turned to leave. "Drive carefully!" he called to her retreating figure. She waved her free hand in acknowledgment, and disappeared down the entry stairs and out the wrought-iron gates. 

Mark turned and faced his empty house. He picked up the phone, reassured himself that there was a dial tone, and replaced the receiver in its cradle. 

He wandered aimlessly out to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door, stared for a moment, then closed it and straightened up. He removed the carafe from the Mr. Coffee machine, ran water into it, then shook his head, poured the water down the drain and replaced the carafe on the machine. He ran his fingers through his white locks and looked around the kitchen, seeing signs of Steve everywhere. He picked up the seawater-green mug with the leaping dolphins on it, Steve's favorite, and wrapped both hands around it. He closed his eyes and bowed his head over the mug, and all was silent. 

xOxOx

The strident ring of the phone woke Mark from the light doze into which he had finally fallen an hour earlier. "Dr. Sloan," he answered, grabbing the phone and knocking his Complete Sherlock Holmes from his lap. 

"Dr. Sloan?" said the voice on the phone. "This is Captain Andrews. I'm calling to notify you that your son's sidearm was recovered last night." 

"His sidearm? Recovered?" Mark squeezed the bridge of his nose with his free hand, trying to separate this reality from the nightmares that had been plaguing him moments before. 

"Yes, sir," said Capt. Andrews, matter-of-factly. "It was used in the commission of a robbery at a 7-11 store in Anaheim." 

"A robbery?" Mark frowned and shook his head in an attempt to clear it. 

"Yes, sir," repeated Capt. Andrews. His tone softened. "I'm sorry, Dr. Sloan. But I thought you would want to know." 

"Yes, of course I do. Thank you, Keith," Mark responded. "Did you catch the robber?" 

"Yes, sir, we did." 

"Did he say where he got the gun?" 

"No, sir, he's unconscious at this point and we are unable to question him." 

"What happened to him?". 

"The counterman had a sidearm of his own hidden in the cash register and got the first shot in, sir." 

"How bad is he?" 

"Pretty bad, sir." 

"Will he make it?" 

"Hard to say, sir. You know how that is." 

"Yes. Yes, I do." Mark sighed. "You'll let me know if he says anything?" 

"Of course, sir." 

"Thank you, Keith," Mark said, and hung up the phone. 

xOxOx

"Mark!" Jesse called as he broke into a jog to catch up with his friend. 

"Hey, Jess," Mark greeted him. "Back again?" 

"Never left," Jesse confessed as he fell into step with Mark. "I was so beat after my double shift that I fell asleep in the lounge." 

"Busy night?" 

"Ooof," Jesse grunted. "Full moon." 

Mark winced in sympathy, then put on his reading glasses and turned his attention to the patient folder he carried. 

"Uh, Mark," Jesse started hesitantly. 

"Yes, Jess?" Mark replied without looking up. 

"Mark, can we talk for a second?" Jesse stopped walking, forcing Mark to come to a standstill and peer at him over the tops of his glasses. "Mark, I heard about Steve's gun." Jess paused, as if he were expecting a reaction. When he didn't get one he continued. "I've also heard that you're making some bad calls today." 

When Mark frowned, Jesse plowed ahead. "Mrs. Corrigan? Mr. Danilo?" 

"Jesse," Mark began, removing his glasses. 

Jesse nodded emphatically and interrupted. "I know, I know. You caught the mistakes before they could impact the patients. My point is that it's not like you to make the mistakes in the first place." Jesse's eyes softened. "Mark, you shouldn't be seeing patients when you're this worried. You can't give them a hundred percent." 

Mark closed the folder he was carrying and gazed at it for a long moment. Jesse saw a muscle jump in his jaw and reached impulsively toward his friend, then stopped and let his hands fall to his sides. "Steve would hate knowing that he was making you do a bad job." 

Mark nodded at the folder. "He would," he said flatly. He paused, then met Jesse's eyes. "I can't do nothing, Jess. I'm just not made that way." 

"I know," Jesse said softly. "But I think you need to find something else to do for now." 

Mark looked around him, up and down the corridor. "What else is there?" It was not really a question. 

A tall figure appeared at the end of the hall, glanced toward Mark and Jesse, and came striding purposefully up to them. 

"Chief Masters," Mark stated, all color deserting his face. 

"Dr. Sloan." Chief Masters nodded as he came up to the pair and halted. "I'm sorry to bring you bad news." He dug in his pocket and brought out a badge. He held it out to Mark, who looked at it, swallowed hard and then looked away. "A foot patrolman in East LA found this today. Some little boys were playing cops and robbers. My officer thought the boy who was the cop had a suspiciously authentic looking badge." Chief Masters turned his commanding stare on Jesse, who automatically reached out to take the offered badge on Mark's behalf. He glanced at it, saw the engraved name "Steve Sloan," and closed his eyes. Chief Masters looked from Mark to Jesse and back to Mark once more. "I'm sorry," he stated again, then turned on his heel and strode back down the corridor and out of the hospital. 

Jesse put his arm around Mark's shoulders and led him down the hall toward the lounge. As they passed the ICU nursing station, he saw Karen Micceli chatting with the nurse behind the desk. "Karen, would you see this gets back to the files?" he asked, holding out the patient folder Mark had been carrying as they walked by. She turned, ready with a smart-assed remark for her favorite ER resident, but stopped when she took in the look on his face, and Mark's devastated air.

"Sure, Jess, no problem," she said as she took the folder and watched them continue down the hall.

"Looks like Dr. Sloan got some bad news. Hope it wasn't about his son," said the nurse behind the desk.

"His son?" Karen asked.

"Yeah, he's been missing since yesterday morning."

"Hmm. Problems in the family?"

"Hardly," the nurse chuckled. "Dr. Sloan and his son are the best of friends. Or so I hear. I've never met the man, personally."

"Hospital grapevine, eh?" Karen smiled. The ICU nurse nodded. "Well, sometimes those grapevines grow a little crooked."

Just then, two uniformed officers approached the ICU desk.

"Ma'am," one said by way of introduction, touching his forehead in a salute.

"Can I help you?" asked Karen.

"We're looking for a missing person," the taller of the two stated.

"We were just talking about a missing person," said Karen amicably. "I don't suppose it's Dr. Sloan's son you're looking for?"

"As a matter of fact, it is, ma'am," answered the officer. He turned again to the nurse behind the desk, and, reading her name tag, addressed his questions to her. "Nurse Morgan, we are investigating all patients admitted to hospitals without identification in the past thirty-six hours. According to your records, your Dr..." He leafed through his notebook. "Malone admitted a John Doe yesterday afternoon at approximately six PM. May we see this John Doe and examine his effects?"

"I worked on that case, Officer..." Karen pointedly examined the name on his tag. "Jerzykowski. There were no effects. The man had only the clothes he was wearing and they were in such bad condition that Dr. Malone ordered them destroyed."

"I see, ma'am. May we see the John Doe, then?"

"To see if it's Steve Sloan?" Nurse Morgan asked. "I can save you the trouble. Karen, didn't Jesse Travis work on him?"

"Yeah, Jesse assisted in the surgery to repair the knife wound."

"Then there's no way that's Steve Sloan, gentlemen," Nurse Morgan stated with finality. "Jesse Travis and Steve Sloan are like that." She held up her right hand with the index and middle fingers clamped tightly together. "Jesse's practically Dr. Sloan's adopted son. There's no way Jesse wouldn't have identified that John Doe if it were Steve Sloan."

Officer Jerzykowski exchanged a glance with his partner, then folded up his notebook and tucked it away in his top pocket. "Thank you, ma'am. We thought it was pretty unlikely that no one would have recognized Detective Sloan here, since his father works here and all, but we had to check it out."

"No problem, officer. I hope you find him." She leaned over the desk with a conspiratorial air, and asked in a low voice, "What are the odds he'll ever be found, much less alive?"

The two patrolmen glanced at each other. "Hard to say, ma'am. We're just trying to do our part for a brother officer."

Nurse Morgan straightened up, feeling the ice in the officer's response. They turned with another polite salute, and walked away down the hall.

"How is our Johnny Doe doing, anyway?" Karen asked. "Is he awake yet?"

"He woke up this morning for a second when I was cleaning him up," Nurse Morgan said. "I asked him what his name was, and he said Dan."

"Dan Doe?" She chuckled. "I think I prefer John."

Nurse Morgan looked thoughtful. "It sounded like Dan. Could have been Dave, I guess. He was pretty foggy. Passed out before I could ask him to say it again. No, it was definitely Da-- something. Dan. Must be. What other man's name starts off 'Da--'?"

Karen shrugged. "Dabney?" Nurse Morgan raised an eyebrow. "Dagwood?" Nurse Morgan chuckled. "Dashiell?"

"Oh, go put that folder back before you get us both in trouble," laughed Nurse Morgan.

Karen tucked the folder under her arm and, still grinning, headed down the hall to Medical Records.

xOxOx

Amanda skidded into the doctors' lounge, coming to a breathless halt as she took in the sight of Jesse placing a steaming coffee mug on the table in front of Mark. They both looked up at her sudden entrance.

"I saw Chief Masters leaving the hospital," she panted, eyes wide. "Did they... Is Steve....," she stammered breathlessly.

"Nothing's changed, Amanda," Jesse stated firmly. He turned to Mark and repeated the statement like a mantra. "Nothing has changed. Steve is still missing. Just the same missing as before."

"Before what?" Amanda asked as she slid into the chair next to Mark. Her eyes fell on the silver shield lying next to the coffee mug. "Oh." Her shoulders sagged as she read the name on the badge. "Oh, Mark. Where did they find it?"

"East LA," Jesse answered for him. "But it doesn't mean anything."

"Jess," Mark interrupted heavily. "A cop's badge..."

"Is just a chunk of metal," Jesse interrupted back.

"No, Jess." Mark reached out and ran his index finger lightly over the engraved letters. "My father was a cop. His father was a cop. Two cousins and a nephew are cops. My son," he paused, voice breaking. "Is a cop," he continued determinedly. "A cop's badge is his identity, his..." He broke off, shaking his head, unable to find the words. "He would never have let anyone take that badge from him."

"He would never have let anyone take his car or his gun, either," Jesse pointed out. "This is no different. Obviously, he was in no position to argue. That's not good. But if there was hope before, there still is now."

"Hope," Mark parroted, then fell silent. Jesse and Amanda exchanged worried glances over his white head.

"Jess, are you on duty?" Amanda asked softly, putting an arm around Mark's shoulders.

"Not until tomorrow morning," he answered.

"I can't get away for another hour. Can you take him home?"

"Sure." He looked at Mark, blue eyes brimming with concern for his friend. "Mark?" Mark slowly raised his eyes from the badge and met Jesse's gaze. "Let me take you home." Mark sighed heavily and nodded. Picking up his son's pledge to serve and protect the people of L.A., he left the lounge with his friends flanking him.

xOxOx

Jesse's soft snores were the only sound in the Sloan household. Mark stood over him, a gentle smile on his face at the sight of his young friend stretched, sound asleep, on the extra-long leather couch that he had ordered custom-made for Steve's comfort. Jesse, stretched full-length, still had eighteen inches of free space at the end of the sofa. Mark leaned over Jesse and picked up the folded afghan from the back of the couch. He shook it out and carefully covered the sleeping form. Jesse snorted, rolled over on his side, and clutched the edge of the afghan, pulling it tight around his neck, all without waking up.

His friend's comfort seen to, Mark glanced at the phone. After a moment, his face hardened, he picked up the cordless receiver and walked with painful determination out onto the deck. By the moonlight reflecting off the Pacific, he dialed a number, then listened to three, four, five distant rings. Just as he was ready to hang up, there was a click and a woman's voice saying, "Hello?"

"Hi, honey," Mark answered. "It's your dad."

"Dad!" Carol's voice registered surprise. "What's up?"

"Carol." Mark started. He paused, closed his eyes and forced the words out. "I'm afraid I have some bad news, honey. It's about your brother."

The words hung on dead air for a moment. Then Carol breathed, "Oh, God. What happened?"

"He's missing, sweetheart."

"Missing?" She sounded relieved. "For how long?"

"Since yesterday morning."

"Was he undercover or on a stakeout or something?"

"No. He said he was dreading a boring day. No new cases, just lots of legwork trying to force a break in some old, stale ones."

"They know which ones?"

"I'm sure they do," Mark answered.

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. "You're sure they do?" Carol asked. "That doesn't sound like you, Dad."

Mark knitted his eyebrows. "What doesn't sound like me?"

"You sound like you're letting the police look for him."

"I am," Mark answered defensively.

"Dad, you investigate everyone else's mur..." She stopped, catching herself in mid-word. "Mysteries," she continued. "Why are you letting the police handle this one, of all cases?"

Mark's jaw dropped, his eyebrows rose, and he was silent for so long that Carol said, "Dad? You still there?"

"Yes, I'm here. Carol, you're wonderful. Thank you."

"For what?"

"Waking me up."

"You lost me, Dad."

"I was just so worried, honey. I mean, first they found his car, and then his gun, and then his badge, and it just seemed like I couldn't catch my breath for worrying about him."

"Dad?"

"Never mind. You're right. I have to look for him. I have to find him. I will find him. Carol, I have to go. I have to find him."

"Dad, are you there alone?" Carol asked, concern palpable in her voice. "I can be there in a few hours if you need me."

"Jesse is here, honey, it's okay. I'll call you as soon as I find him."

"Good hunting, Dad. Call me as soon as you have any news, okay?"

"Sure, honey. Thanks again." Mark clicked off the phone, and gazed around the deck as if seeing it for the first time. Then he strode purposefully back through the French doors into the living room.

"Jesse!" he called as he came in the room. "Wake up! We've got work to do!" 

xOxOx

"Hi."

The ICU nurse jumped at the unexpected raspy greeting. "Hi yourself," she responded, recovering her composure. "How are you feeling?"

"Where's my dad?" Steve breathed.

"Where's your dad?" the nurse repeated. Steve nodded weakly.

"I don't know, sir. Tell me his name and I'll try to find him for you."

Steve's eyebrows knitted in concern as his vision cleared a bit.. "Lynn," he said hoarsely.

"Your father's name is Lynn? Lynn what?"

"No, you."

"Me?" She shook her head. "I'm not Lynn. My name is Mary Jo. Now, what is your father's name?"

"Dead," Steve said, his blue eyes clouding over.

"Your father is dead," Mary Jo repeated. "I'm sorry."

"No," Steve said. "Lynn. Dead. You look like her."

"I look like a dead woman. Now we're getting somewhere," Mary Jo commented with growing exasperation. "Sir, if you would just tell me your name..."

"Mark," Steve interjected, with effort.

"Your name is Mark," Mary Jo repeated to him.

"No." Steve shook his head, losing strength rapidly. He looked into the young nurse's eyes. "You're pretty."

"You're not so bad yourself," she smiled. Steve's eyes closed and he lapsed back into unconsciousness, his head rolling limply to one side. "Why do I always have that effect on the cute ones?" Mary Jo asked with a wry grin. She finished updating Steve's chart and moved on to her next patient.

xOxOx

"Mark is where?" Amanda asked Jesse in that tone that meant trouble coming for someone fast.

"In East L.A."

"Alone?"

"I had to come on shift!" Jesse defended himself.

"What is he doing in East L.A?"

"Looking for Steve."

Amanda put her hands on her hips and assumed what Jesse thought of as her fighting stance. Not that he would ever dare tell her that. "Why East L.A.? Why not Anaheim, or Pasadena, where he might have a chance to survive the experience?"

"We figured that was the most likely place." Amanda tilted her head questioningly sideways and threateningly forward. Jesse wondered, not for the first time, exactly how she accomplished that effect. "The car obviously could end up miles from where it was stolen," he explained. "The gun could have changed hands a hundred times after they took it from Steve." Amanda tapped her foot. "The badge wasn't worth anything to anyone. They must have taken it just to keep the body from being identified." Jesse back- pedaled frantically at the look in Amanda's eyes. "To keep Steve from being identified."

Amanda's anger cooled as understanding came into her eyes. "So they would have ditched the badge as soon as they could. So where the badge was found is probably the closest to where Steve was..."

"Yeah," Jesse interrupted, saving her from having to complete the sentence. "That's what Mark thought. So, he badgered Lt. Shoemacher into giving him the name and address of the little boy who found Steve's badge, and he headed out to East L.A. with a recent photo of Steve."

"And you let him go. Alone."

"Hey, at least I made him wait until daybreak!"

xOxOx

"Have you seen this man?" Mark asked, for the hundredth time. At least this person didn't brush by him with a frightened air.

"You're the second person to ask me this in two days, man," he stated after examining the photo Mark handed him. "Police looking for this dude?"

"Yes. He's my son."

"What'd he do?"

"Nothing. He's a cop. He's missing."

The man glanced again at the picture of a smiling Steve. "Nope. Still haven't seen him. Sorry, Pops." He walked on, not hearing Mark's "Thanks anyway" or his mumbled, "and don't call me Pops."

Mark sighed. He sat down on a bench and slipped his aching feet out of his loafers, rubbing them in turn and wincing. He put his shoes back on and stood up. Suddenly lightheaded, he sat back down again with jarring suddenness. "Maybe I should eat something," he thought as he waited for the world to stop spinning. He glanced at his watch. "No wonder." His eyebrows furrowed as he realized it had been eighteen hours since he had last eaten. As the world steadied, he saw a neighborhood bar across the street. Carefully testing his equilibrium this time, he rose from the bench, crossed the street, and entered the cool dark of Ted's Place.

"What's yours, Joe?" the barmaid greeted him as he climbed on a stool.

"Something to eat," Mark responded. "And it's Mark, not Joe."

"Everyone's Joe to Keke," commented the bus boy, wiping a table behind Mark.

"You're Keke?" Mark asked.

"That would be me," Keke agreed amiably. "The menu's on the chalkboard. Not much selection, but what there is stinks."

"At least it's cheap," Mark commented, reading the daily selections. "What do you recommend?"

"MacDonalds," said Keke.

Mark grinned in spite of himself. "Keke, have you seen this man?" He laid the photo of Steve on the bar, and Keke picked it up. She moved it back and forth, trying to catch what little light there was in the bar.

"Never seen him before," she finally commented. "And him, I'd remember."

Mark accepted the photo back from her with an exhausted sigh. "How about a grilled cheese?" he asked.

"One of our safer options," Keke nodded. She turned to the grill, slapped a dubious yellow liquid on both sides of two pieces of bread with a paintbrush, and plopped the anointed slices on the hot grill. "Friend of yours?" she asked over her shoulder, as she peeled the plastic off a single slice of American cheese and carefully placed it in the middle of one piece of bread, tipping the second piece on top.

"My son," Mark answered. Keke turned and scrutinized him.

"Yeah, I see it. Around the jaw line especially." She turned back to the grill, flipped Mark's sandwich over, and pressed down hard on it with the spatula. Grease sizzled and spattered. Mark swallowed hard. "I bet you were a looker yourself thirty years ago, Joe."

"Mark," Mark corrected her.

Keke slipped a plate under the sandwich and placed it on the bar in front of Mark with a flourish. "Mark." She smiled. "Enjoy."

"I'll do my best," Mark said uncertainly, poking the sandwich with his fork. It oozed across the plate. "May I have a few napkins?" he asked.

"Sure, Mark," Keke said. She looked up and down the bar, then off into a distant, dark corner of the room. "Hey, Joe!" she called. "Bring that napkin dispenser up here, willya?"

As a tall figure emerged from the gloom, Mark felt his heart leap. "Steve," he breathed. Then, as the man came closer, he saw that it was not his son. But the man Keke called Joe was wearing his son's fawn jacket, and the dark teal shirt that had been one of Mark's last birthday presents to his son. "Dear God," he whispered.

"You okay, Mark?" Keke asked, concerned. "The food doesn't usually get to you that fast. You generally have to at least taste it."

"Joe?" Mark asked hesitantly. The tall man turned toward him, but didn't meet his gaze. "Joe, where did you get those clothes?" Joe's eyes widened with fear, and he bolted toward the back of the bar. "No! Joe! Come back!" Mark was off the stool in a heartbeat and running after Joe, tripping over chairs and tables in frantic pursuit. "Joe!"

"Joe!" Keke's commanding voice shook the bar. Joe froze with the back door half open. "Don't you dare run away," she continued as she came out from behind the bar and marched back to where Mark and Joe stood, six feet apart, eyeing each other. She took Joe by the ear and led him, squirming, back to the bar. Mark followed. "Now," she said. "What's going on? What is it about Joe's clothes that turned you white as a sheet, pal?"

"They're my son's," Mark said. "What he was wearing the day he disappeared." He reached out to touch the shirt, and Joe flinched back. "Joe, I don't want to scare you. I just want to find my son. You can keep the clothes." Mark's sharp eye noticed details that made his heart sink. "Looks like you mended that slit in the side really well," he commented. "And you got most of the stain out of it."

Joe relaxed a bit at this homely talk. "Yeah, I take good care of my things," he stated. "Blood is hard to get out, though. I had to soak it all day."

Mark took a deep breath. "Joe, can you tell me where you got those clothes? Please? It's important." Joe looked at Keke, maybe for approval, maybe for support. He got both as she nodded encouragement.

"I swapped for them," he said.

"Swapped?" Mark asked. Joe nodded vigorously. "With this man?" Mark held out the photo of Steve. Joe looked at it with a frown.

"He wasn't thirsty."

"What?" Mark asked.

"He wasn't thirsty," Joe repeated. "I offered him a drink. My best stuff. Right, Keke?"

"Right, Joe," she agreed, then shrugged at Mark.

"Can you show me where he was when you got the clothes from him, Joe?" Mark asked.

"I can keep them?" Joe asked. Mark nodded emphatically. "Cause I like them a lot. They're loose, but they feel really nice. It was nice of that man to swap with me."

"He's like that, Joe," Mark smiled. "Now, can you show me where you met him?"

"Never met him," Joe said. Mark closed his eyes, fighting the urge to try to strangle the information out of this man.

"Joe, straighten up," Keke said. "The man wants to know where you got the clothes. Show him."

"'Kay, Keke," Joe got up and walked to the back of the bar. Keke and Mark looked at each other, then rose and followed. Keke stopped at the door. "Joe, I have to stay here and mind the bar," she said. "You answer this man's questions and take care of him or no more Ms. Nice Guy. Got it?"

"Got it, Keke." Joe's grocery cart waited in the alley behind the bar. He pushed it along the sidewalk for three blocks, crossing from one side of the street to the other at seemingly random intervals, Mark following. He passed the entrance to the cul-de-sac where Steve was mugged, turned, and passed it again going in the other direction. The third time he stopped.

"In here," he said, and zig-zagged into the alleyway. Mark spotted the dumpster and went straight there, kneeling when he saw the dark stain on the concrete. He touched it lightly with his fingertips.

"That's where he was, mister. The man who swapped clothes with me."

xOxOx

"Mark!" Jesse called as his friend careered, wild eyed, up the corridor of Community General toward the ICU.

"Jesse. I found him."

"What?" Jesse's eyes popped as he swung into step with Mark. "Where is he?"

"Right here. Has been all along."

"Mark," Jesse started uncertainly.

He saw Amanda up ahead and motioned frantically to her.

"Mark, what's up?" Amanda asked as she, too, fell into step with the two men and took in Mark's overexcited air and disheveled appearance.

"He's in ICU," Mark said, half-running up the hall in his eagerness.

Amanda frowned a hundred questions at Jesse, who shrugged his ignorance. They followed in his wake at double time to keep up with his longer legs. Mark was at a dead run by the time he reached the ICU. He dashed behind the nursing station and began leafing frantically through the patient charts.

"Mark, what's going on?" Amanda puffed as she and Jesse caught up with him.

"The police said they brought him here," Mark gasped. "It has to be him. Joe had his clothes. He had no ID so they checked him in as a John Doe." Jesse and Amanda stared and panted.

"Didn't the police check out all the John Does for that day?" Jesse asked.

"They said so. But maybe they didn't check this one because they figured anyone here would recognize him."

"They don't know the kind of turnover we have in the ER, then," Jesse said. "I've been there longer than almost anyone."

Mark nodded. "I know. That's how I figure he could have been brought here and not recognized."

"Then where is he, Mark?" Amanda asked gently, trying to ground the discussion.

Mark stopped riffling through files and pulled one out. "Right here," he said, with a radiant smile. "John Doe. Bed 12." He was off at a dead run again, Jesse and Amanda trailing behind.

When they caught up with him this time, he was leaning on an empty bed, every muscle sagging. "It can't be," he muttered. "Not now."

Amanda put an arm around him. "Mark, it couldn't have been him," she started.

"It had to be, Amanda." He stood up and stepped away from her consoling touch, heading back toward the nursing station.

"Nurse!" he called. Karen turned.

"It's Dr. Sloan, isn't it?" She smiled. "Hi, Jess!"

"Hi Kare," Jesse greeted her. "Mark, this is Karen Micceli, one of our new E.R. nurses. Karen, Mark Sloan."

"Karen, where's the ICU nurse on duty?" Mark asked urgently.

"She had a serious bathroom issue to take care of," Karen grinned. "So I agreed to cover for her for a few minutes. Things were slow in the E.R." She looked pointedly at Jess. "For a change."

"Karen, do you know anything about the John Doe who was in Bed 12?" Mark asked.

"Johnny?" she responded. "Sure. I was there when they brought him in. I was kind of keeping tabs on him. You remember him, Jess. You worked on him."

Jesse's eyebrows hit the ceiling. "I did?"

"Yeah, don't you remember? Malone's case? He called you in to assist at the last minute?"

"Oh my God," Jesse stated. "The homeless guy." He slapped a hand over his forehead and held it there. "The guy with the great abs." He answered the three puzzled looks. "Malone said this guy was a homeless alcoholic. He was already draped and under when I got there, but I do remember thinking that he was in awfully good shape for someone living on the streets. Then Malone made me so mad I forgot about it. Oh, God, Mark, I'm so sorry. If that was Steve..."

"Don't worry about it, Jess. Let's just find him. Karen," Mark took a deep breath. "Bed 12 is empty. Do you know what happened to John Doe?"

She shook her head. "Sorry. Last I knew he was still unconscious. He had a pretty serious concussion as well as the knife wound."

"Knife wound," Mark repeated. "It had to be him." He swayed dangerously, and Jess and Amanda jumped to support him.

"Mary Jo could tell you," Karen volunteered as a young blonde nurse appeared, coming down the hall.

"Tell you what?" she asked as she came closer.

"What happened to John Doe. Bed 12."

"That's easy. I told Dr. Malone that he woke up enough to say three words to me last night, and he said fine, it's time to move him out of ICU and into a room where he won't be costing the hospital so much money."

"What a sweetheart," Karen cracked. "Gotta love him."

"What room, Mary Jo?" Mark asked, desperation making his voice shake.

"Let me check. Hmmmm. Looks like 427." She looked up from the chart in surprise as Mark, Jesse and Amanda took off down the hall. She gave Karen a puzzled look, but received only a shrug in return.

Mark grabbed the door frame of room 427 and swung himself into the room. He skidded to a halt. A slow step at a time, barely breathing, he approached the bed. Jesse and Amanda screeched to a halt in the doorway and stood, watching.

Mark drank in the sight of his sleeping son. He automatically checked the IVs in his arm and the readouts on the monitors. He laid a gentle hand on his forehead, smoothing back the stray hairs that emerged from under the bandages. Then, with infinite care and tenderness, he slipped one arm under his son's shoulders, the other hand under his injured head, and with a fierce gentleness hugged him for a long, long moment.

Amanda stepped softly up to Mark's side and put a hand on his back. At her touch, he carefully laid Steve's shoulders back down on the bed, his head back down on the pillow. He sat up, wiping tears from his cheeks, unable to tear his gaze away from his son's face.

Steve's eyelids fluttered and his eyes opened. A slow smile spread across his face.

"Hey, Dad," he asked weakly. "Where've you been?" 


End file.
